First Cell

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First Cell

Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #82

Who shall know the grim onslaught 
From aimless hours that besiege,
The mind is cleaved from thought 
And the heart barred from feeling.

A makeshift appearance is present
And denied all agency of being,
The will like a sceptre broken is kept,
None remains to direct any becoming.

Is this crucible from some void wrought,
To all our impulsions with a nay replying?
Like when time was young and life stirred not
And the first cell fought all earth for its birthing.

Are we marked for Thy barren experiments only
And the happier attempts for those wrought nobly?